


Dolled Up

by sarken



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e12 The Bachelor Party, F/F, Missing Scene, Say Yes Night, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken
Summary: Frankie dresses Grace.





	Dolled Up

**Author's Note:**

> I've thought about writing this for a while, but the actual kick in the pants to do it came from a prompt in [Femslash Ficlets' Janelle Monae lyrics table](https://femslashficlets.dreamwidth.org/223971.html): _So dress me up I'll like it better if we both pretend_.

They get half dressed in Grace's room—Frankie's top half and Grace's bottom—before heading up to the studio, where the first thing Frankie says is, "You're not attached to those jeans, are you?"

They're jeggings, an unfunny gag gift from Brianna two Christmases ago. She'd had to lie on the bed and suck in her stomach while Frankie had zipped and buttoned her in. "I'll probably burn them after this."

"Good. Now sit."

"If I can," she says under her breath, and she's so concerned about splitting a seam, she doesn't pay attention to what Frankie is doing. At least not until Frankie is coming toward her with sandpaper and a penknife in hand. "Uh, Frankie—"

"Relax, Grace. I've deconstructed a million pairs of jeans in my life." She sits and pulls Grace's legs onto her lap. "Usually not while someone was in them, but I'll be careful." She rubs the sandpaper over Grace's knee. "You're up to date on your tetanus shot, right?"

"Oh, God." She whimpers and sags dramatically against the couch.

The lightweight denim is quick to fray beneath the sandpaper, and Frankie is careful, true to her word, keeping the dull side of the blade against Grace's skin as she teases the worn spot into a hole.

Grace can't help watching intently; she's never done anything like this before. She's opened seams to make alterations, but never torn into the very fiber of a material and admired the beauty of it coming apart. Never thought of signs of wear as anything but undesirable until seeing— _feeling_ —Frankie's finger slip past the white threads and into the hole to brush against her skin.

Grace rests her head against the leather again, letting her eyes drift shut as Frankie slips a second finger, this one from her other hand, inside. It's a tight fit, and with a soft grunt, she pulls, and Grace feels the denim give, tearing just above her knee.

"One down," Frankie declares, short nail scratching lightly against Grace's skin as she slips her finger free. 

Grace expects her to switch to the other knee; instead, Frankie picks a spot on her thigh. " _Oh_ ," Grace says at the first brush of friction, back arching, muscles tensing. Something that could be, but isn't, her body recoiling in surprise.

"Too high?" Frankie asks.

Grace shakes her head. "N-no. It's fine."

She bites her lip through it: the warm weight of Frankie's hand, fingers gripping her thigh, the rhythmic friction of the sandpaper rubbing against her jeans. God help her, she can't even _breathe_ as Frankie so carefully moves the tiny knife between fabric and skin. And then there's skin against skin, and the terrible question of what _won't_ Frankie say yes to.

"Two," Frankie says, pulling her finger out of Grace's jeans.

"I want to do some," Grace says, sputters, blurts—a too sudden, too harsh, too loud declaration. But she can work with it. She swings her legs off Frankie's lap. "I'm going to take these off and finish ruining them. Go find me a shirt to wear, and some shoes, and put on that one decent pair of black slacks I know you own."

Frankie shrugs. "Whatever you say. Yell if you need me."

As Frankie walks away, the words _I need you_ stick—mercifully—in Grace's throat.

Her panties are damp, and even though she's alone, she blushes hotly as she peels off her jeans. She doesn't bother with the sandpaper, just sticks her hand down into the leg to part the layers of denim and makes quick, careless slits with the penknife. She nicks herself and swears, but doesn't let it stop her—she wants to be dressed when Frankie returns from the bedroom Grace has never seen.

( _Could you show me_ , some treacherous part of her mind wants her to ask, all batted eyelashes as she waits there in less than she's wearing now.)

The jeans tear beautifully as she pulls them up, and they've stretched enough that she can button them up. She checks her reflection in the mirror propped against the far wall—she wouldn't dress like this for anybody else, but she can no longer imagine burning these jeans, only tucking them away, waiting for the day Frankie asks her to wear them again.

Frankie emerges from the bedroom in the slacks Grace told her to wear, a pile of shirts in her arms and black boots in hand. "I couldn't decide," she says, gesturing at the shirts. "I was thinking Blondie, or maybe the Stones, but then I just grabbed all the shirts I shrunk in the dryer that one time, figured we'd just go with whatever fit. Nice job with the jeans, by the way. I like that you even went for the shins." She drops the shirts on her work table and grabs one that's mesh. "Put this on first. I'm not giving you my jacket if you get cold."

"Technically, that's _my_ jacket," Grace says, but she pulls her turtleneck off and puts Frankie's shirt on, doesn't even consider modestly turning around.

Frankie paws through her pile of black fabric. "We've got CBGB's, Patti Smith, the Ramones... Does any of this mean anything to you?"

"How about that one?" Grace dodges, pointing to a shirt that is more charcoal than black.

"New York Dolls," Frankie says approvingly, handing over the shirt. "Proto-punk in high heels. I like that for you. But don't get me wrong—I'm still making you wear the boots."

"Of course you are." She pulls the T-shirt over her head, and when she sits down to deal with the bootlaces, Frankie's fingers slide into her hair. "What are you doing?"

"Revenge," Frankie says cheerfully. "The good news is it's revenge that washes out in a day or two."

"A day or two?" Both her volume and pitch go up.

Frankie hums to herself. "Say yes, Grace. It's blue."

Grace crosses her arms and huffs, which is as close to _yes_ as she's going to come, and by the time Frankie is done turning her hair into a backcombed rat's nest, she almost has the second boot laced and tied. "Is there anything else you need to do to me, or can we go now?" she asks, carefully not looking at the mirror as she gets to her feet. The thick, flat soles are going to take some getting used to; it's like having bricks attached to her feet.

"Just one thing," Frankie says, and she wraps her arms around Grace.

A hug isn't what Grace was expecting, but it's a pleasant surprise, and she's lifting her arms to return the gesture when Frankie's hands slide up under her shirt. 

"You can't be punk in a hundred and thirty dollar bra," she says, undoing the clasp so effortlessly it makes Grace's head spin. Her whole body feels unsteady when Frankie steps back. "So get out of that thing and meet me down in the car. And you better believe me, Hanson, when I say I intend to check."

 _I look forward to it_ , Grace thinks, swaying a little on her feet.


End file.
